Sweet Little Lies
by BitterKitten
Summary: A oneshot from Booth's POV, about the lies you tell yourself as you fall for someone... and how the truth always comes out, in the end.


**Title: Sweet Little Lies**

**Disclaimer: Not Mine! Wish They Were! Please Don't Sue!**

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: Bones & Booth**

**Spoilers: Up to Season 2, Ep 17**

**Summary: A one-shot from Booth's POV, about the lies you tell yourself as you fall for someone... and how the truth always comes out, in the end.**

**Remember, reviews equal love!**

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You don't want to admit it, even to yourself. You don't want to realise that you like being the one she turns to, the person she hugs when she's scared. You tell yourself that it's a guy hug, as she collapses into your arms, as you feel her warmth through the thin cotton of your tee shirt. As you feel her tears soak through to your skin. You try not to notice the spicy, floral smell of her hair, and the way it tickles the skin on the back of your arm as you hold her to you, feeling her shake. You murmur that you know who she is, and you realise it's true.

You remember the fear you felt, when you got her down from the hook, the moment your body failed you and you slung her arms around your neck. You tell yourself it was a natural reaction, remembering the pain of her arms pressing into your broken collarbone, and how you welcomed it, because it meant she was alive, and whole. That she still had two arms to hurt you with. You remember how you wrote it off as an extreme reaction to extreme stress. You ignore the remembered glow of pleasure you felt when she cancelled her date to stay at the hospital. You try to forget, but your body remembers now, holding her again, how good it felt to have her in your arms.

And when the moment passes, and she regains her composure, retreating back into her hard exterior, you pretend not to feel the absence of her. You let her go, you go back to your normal self, giving her a hard time, as you always do. You needle her, picking fights, just to piss her off, and you tell yourself that you don't notice how lovely she looks when she gets angry.

You remember, unwillingly, how it felt, when she put her hand, small and white, on your arm, as you yourself lost your composure, in your own moment of weakness. How it felt to give in, just for a second, to the doubt and the guilt and the pain that you usually kept buried, so far down. You recall the way she looked at you as you struggled to keep it together, as you told her the worst of what you had done, how you expected to see judgement in her eyes, but instead found only sadness and acceptance. You felt lighter that day. Lighter than you had in years, and only the absence of the weight made you realise how heavy the secret had been until you shared it with her. And you began to realise, just a bit, just a little, exactly how much she could mean to you.

You talk to her, like you always do, and you find yourself at the bar with her more often than you used to. You notice the way her mouth twists, when she's embarrassed or confused or hurt, and you find yourself saying things to make her do it. You begin to learn her secrets, her quirks. You learn the ways of her. Cases come, and you solve them, bickering all the while, and you find yourself wondering if the guy she met a while back is still on the scene. You ask yourself why the thought of them together makes you feel a little hollow, then conveniently ignore the answer your sub-conscious provides you with. You're partners. And friends. It's been a while since you've had a friend as close as her. It's been a while since you've had anyone like her in your life. Maybe never.

And there comes a moment, another unguarded moment, when you give her a pig. A ceramic pig, from a tacky shop, called Jasper. She killed for you, took a life, saved yours, and she pretends that she's okay. She's not, and you know it. She knows you know. So you give her a pig. You notice the way her eyes glow a little, in the dim light of the lab, late at night. You promise her she'll be okay, definitely. You can see the trust in her eyes, the vulnerability… something else, too? And at that moment, you know with an absolute certainty, as the warm silence stretches between you, as your heart beats a little faster than normal, that you would do anything in your power to make sure that she stays okay, definitely. It scares you. More than you want to admit.

When you fall into bed with the mother of your child, and then Cam, you ignore that little voice in the back of your head, a little louder now, pointing out the fact that the woman in your arms feels wrong. You lose yourself in the physical pleasure, in the biological urges. You don't tell her. Something stops you, but you don't question it. And when she finds out, when she tells you she knows, you ignore the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach. You find yourself wanting to explain to her, and when one of the conversations between the two of you turns to relationships, to sex, you find yourself telling her that 'just sex' doesn't exist. She looks confused, and you are startled by the sudden, primal, visceral urge to show her exactly what you mean. A deep breath, and another, and you try to forget it.

You go through the motions with Cam. You work. You tell yourself that everything's fine. Occasionally, you get the feeling that you are destiny's bitch, as you are thrown together in Las Vegas. She surprises you there, with her smoky voice and her tight black dress, with her red lipstick and her arm around your neck. And there are moments, when your barriers fall down. You get the crap beaten out of you, in a dusty underground pit, and when she launches herself at you, into your arms, not caring that you are covered in sweat and blood, that you are bruised and half-dazed. You both pretend not to notice when you slip up and call her babe. You don't analyse it, you just embrace her, feeling your chest pound against hers. You get home, and you pretend you don't notice how different it feels when your girlfriend hugs you.

You find excuses to touch her. A guiding hand on the small of her back, an arm around her shoulders as you talk. And even if you won't admit it yet, when Cam touches you in front of her, when she reaches for your hand, you find yourself searching your partner's face for her reaction. You don't ask yourself why you bail on your girlfriend to stay with her and eat greasy Thai Food late at night. And when you forget yourself, for a moment, and tell her that she's 'well-structured', awkwardly, stumbling over your words, you find yourself noticing the way her smile grows when you say it. And you try to keep yourself from grinning like an idiot when she returns the compliment. You cover how flustered you are by going back to solid ground. You mock her for eating all of the Mi Krow, and try to slow your heart.

There are moments, though, when all the denial in the world can't help you. And when you get that message, you don't care that you are with your girlfriend, that she's your partner, that she's just a friend. You feel panic. It's in your gut and it overwhelms you, blurring your vision and stopping your world. You realise then, in that moment, exactly what there is to lose. Your hands go cold and fear trickles through your body, settling in your stomach like a lead weight. Your heart stops.

The burst of sand in the quarry alights a spark of hope, emboldens you, and you find that you don't care much who thinks what, as you race your way down the slope. Your lungs burn and you have dust in your eyes, but you don't care. You dig, praying, offering up everything you have and more to a God you sometimes doubt, if he will only save her. And when you feel her hand close on yours, you don't try to hide the giddy rush of relief. You offer up a thank you, and your heart starts again. You breathe.

It gets harder after that. Harder to pretend. The more you realise what you've always known, the more afraid you are. Because you are realising how much she means to you, and by proxy, what it would cost you, if you lost her. Resignation envelops you, like a dull sky, because you are not willing to find out what your life would be without her in it. You don't want to hurt her. You don't want to disappoint her, like you've disappointed women before. You don't want the cost of a failed relationship to be not having her in your life at all. It's too big a risk, and you don't gamble, not anymore. The stakes are too high.

So as you sit beside her on the park bench, doubting yourself, questioning whether you intentionally let a life slip from your hands, you find yourself telling her about lines that can't be crossed. The words feel wrong as you speak them. Her mouth twists a little, then, and you try not to notice. You sit there, in the cold, clear, sunlight, watching your son on the carousel, and you try to ignore lump in your throat.

You make mistakes. It's not until you smell the acrid gunpowder in the air that you realise what you've done. Her face beside you is shocked. Scared. She's never looked at you like that before, and your hand shakes a little, as you lower your gun. As you try to hold onto your self-control, try to put your fears back in their box. You know that you've messed up, and it scares you as much as it scares her.

So she continues to do what you used to do together, with another man, while you build a barbeque for a British man who sees right through you. Who seems to know more about you than you do yourself. From you he draws the answers you don't want to give, the truths you are loathe to admit. He drinks tea, and you drink coffee, black and bitter.

You discover a newfound sense of irony, as fate reminds you once again that you are at its whim. Because while Gordon Gordon was making you realise that you were bent, but not broken, she was moving on, moving forward. When she walks into her office, glowing, radiant, when she tells you that she slept with him, you try to hide how much it hurts. Which it does. Like a sucker punch. You know she's not being malicious, that she is happy, and she wants to share it. It doesn't stop you from wanting to deck him. You smile, you make a joke. And when she leaves, you take a deep breath, and you blame it on your tie.

You shouldn't be shocked when Gordon Gordon spells it out for you. But you are. As soon as the words leave his mouth, as soon as he speaks of knowing where you stand, and sparks catching fire, you are knocked over by the simple truth you are presented with. You know that there is no going back. You know that this is something that you can't unlearn.

When she tells you she might be leaving, you waver. The honest part of you, the selfish part, the real part – it wants you to drop to your knees and beg her to stay, and you wonder for a moment what would happen if you gave into it. The confusion on her face stops you, and you know you won't do it. Because here is a chance for her to be happy, and who are you to keep her from that? You heed her friend's advice, and you find yourself telling her to go, trying not to choke on the words.

She doesn't leave, and this time, there's no pretending. You allow yourself to feel the undiluted relief, as you watch her in the watery early morning light, her hair dancing in the salty breeze. She doesn't know you're there, yet, she can't see you as you drop your guard, just for a moment, and take in the sight of her there, before you. You still don't know where you stand, exactly, but at least you know that there is still hope for the fire. You open your eyes, and then she turns. A begrudging half smile finds its way to her face as she sees you.

And so you move to her, you put an arm around her, and she leans into you, just a bit. You pull her closer, feeling her warmth through her coat. You can smell her hair, jasmine, or maybe lavender, over the scent of the ocean. And this time, you let yourself notice how well she fits into your arms, like a jigsaw finding a missing piece. You tell her, in your own way, what you can. You fan the sparks, even if you aren't ready, not just yet, for the blaze. You give her what you have, even though you fear it's not enough. You hope like hell that it will be. You don't look at her, as you say it, and she doesn't say anything when you're done.

But she nestles into your arm, a little closer, and you hold her tight. You give thanks for patient women, and you realise then that you can wait. You realise that some things are worth waiting for.

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**Authors Note: Review! Review! Review! Even if you hated it:)**


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